


Unprofessional

by zeraparker



Category: The Walking Dead RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Character Bleed, Control, Headspace, Light Dom/sub, Loss of Control, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 11:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9438845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: All that UST in front of the camera had to go somewhere. This is just a cheap excuse to write some filthy smut. You're welcome.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tagging this Rick/Negan because of the character bleed thingy. Thanks to Gemjam for encouraging me to play with them.

Andy's face is hot, the flush spreading to his ears, down his neck to his chest. “I'm so sorry,” he says again, eyes averted, flickering from his shoes to the edge of the bar top they're sitting at, the soggy napkin his beer has been placed on already torn to shreds. “It's unprofessional, and I shouldn't have said that, and I just hope this won't make things weird between us on set, like, I can totally understand if you're just going to leave now.”

He's a mess, he know that. It's been a long fucking day on set, a row of endless long days that are taking all of him, every little piece from the character he took so many years building up, tearing him down into tiny pieces, laying him bare for the camera, take and take again, one after the other, and it's brutal, it's leaving him aching and restless at night.

But it's so good, too. He's seen some of the takes, knows how they come across, knows it's worth every piece of his soul if he can just get on with it, keep pulling himself apart for the audience. It's wrecking, but he's a professional, has worked with this crew for years.

And now this.

 

Jeffrey is the perfect actor to take on the role given to him, dons Negan's skin like it's his own, slips into his personality like a hand made glove. It shouldn't be a surprise that he gets to Andy like that, that he so easily breaks through Rick and turns him to rubble, the way he's written, the way Jeffrey takes the lines and tweaks them until he finds the best way to deliver them, the most impact he can get out of them. He's a natural, with infinite attention to detail and the strength to rework and deliver a single line a hundred times until he's got it just right, and Andy latches onto that, allows himself to lay bare every one of Rick's weak spots until their back and forth in front of the camera is more brutally honest than anything he's played before.

He pushes the boundaries of his character, like dancing on a knife's edge, until he's got to run off set in between takes to take the emotional strain out on some trash cans, kicking them until they're as dented and bruised as he feels, storms into his wardrobe to scream into a pillow until his voice is just the right shade of hoarse.

Andy's been living inside Rick's skin for so long that it's hard to shake him off some times, during breaks, in the evenings. Some of it is character bleed, he knows that one, suffered it before, but some of it is himself, some old part of him he doesn't like to admit exists, and this season, these scenes are dragging all of that back to the surface.

He's pretty sure that Jeffrey must have caught on a while back; he's not stupid after all, not blind. There's something in the intensity of his gaze that is as much Negan sizing up Rick as it is Jeffrey sizing up Andy, and he can't help squirm away from it whenever he can, can't help falling beneath it when the cameras running won't allow him to turn away.

There had been moments on set when he'd been too weak in the knees from emotional exhaustion and inappropriate arousal he couldn't make himself rise from whatever crouched position Jeffrey – Negan, he has to remind himself, that was the character, not the actor beneath the stage make-up and leather jacket – had pushed him into; moments where another word or another slight touch would have had him bolt or topple over or beg like a bitch in heat; moments where he's certain every single want and hate and need had been written all over his face, so easily decipherable for anyone who cared to look.

Now he's in the deserted hotel bar, the bartender moving tiredly in and out behind the counter, refilling the drawers below the bar, disappearing into the kitchen at the back, and Andy just wants to chase away the taste of ash on his tongue with a beer and maybe half a bottle of Jack. He's tired, his hands aching from the death grip around the handle of that stupid baseball bat all day as he'd stood in the sun, the takes with Danai and Jeffrey and the background Saviours at the gates to Alexandria still rattling around his brain. He can still feel the ghost touch of Negan's leather glove as he had retrieved the bat from Rick's hand, Negan's hot breath on his face, his close proximity, the way he knows no personal boundaries, and Andy clutches the beer bottle tightly in his hand as he takes another long draught, the alcohol cool and heavy on his tongue.

It's that moment Jeffrey enters the bar, dressed down to jeans and a comfortable hoodie that looks washed out and soft, his hair still damp from a recent shower. Andy sees him in the mirror behind the bar as he walks over, plonking himself onto the bar stool next to him and reaches past Andy to take the mostly empty beer bottle out of his hand draining it. Andy has followed the bottle with his eyes, how Jeffrey put it to his lips and tilts it back, his throat working as he'd swallowed. His eyes linger after Jeffrey put the bottle down again, a nervous twitch around his eyes.

Jeffrey smirks at him, the tip of his tongue slipping out to catch the residue of the beer along his lower lip.

“Careful how you look at me,” Jeffrey says, his voice the same timbre it was earlier, but the sentence feels unfinished, wrong in the way it hangs between them without the 'Rick' tagged onto the end of it, but Andy still has to look away, can't hold the tension.

Jeffrey's presence feels larger than life next to him, so close, that maddening smile still directed at him, and Andy can feel his traitorous body reacting, the tight restrain he's had on himself all day, all the past days, loosening another notch. He's growing hard in his jeans at the threat in Jeffrey's voice, played as it may be, and he just wants to sink to his knees right here in the hotel bar and nuzzle his face into the older man's crotch. _I just slid my dick down your throat and you thanked me for it_ , Jeffrey – no, Negan – had said earlier, so many times over for all the takes and angles they had to shoot it from, and the words had been ringing around Andy's head for the rest of the day, the images they produced, unbidden but undeniable. He wants, he wants so bad, and a desperate sound escapes his throat before he can stop it.

“What was that?” Jeffrey asks, all amusement and quiet curiosity. His fingers are playing with the empty beer bottle, his thumb catching on the rim of it.

Andy shakes his head, trying to clear it. His throat feels raw from the day of swallowing every comeback Rick couldn't say, every scream of frustration he's let out when the cameras had stopped running. He feels chocked around the ghost of a cock heavy on his tongue he's been thinking about for hours now.

“Just. Put your money where your fucking mouth is, or fuck off,” Andy snaps eventually, shifting on his seat and glancing at the mirror just in time to see Jeffrey's eyes follow his movements, see his shame, and that's how he's got into this trap of a situation. His stupid mouth, the one time he can't keep it shut, and his stupid body and his sanity, primed by the hours at the mercy of the man next to him. He can't, he just can't anymore, turning into a stammering, blushing ball of anxiety. He just needs to get away, now.

 

“Oh, just shut up,” Jeffrey says into the rambling apology Andy has found himself caught up in the moment his brain kicks back into gear. It snaps his mouth shut immediately, but his eyes are averted. He can't look at Jeffrey now. “I don't think it's my money you want,” Jeffrey continues conversationally, too much humour in his voice, still too much Negan, and Andy wants to scream again.

“Forget it, I'm just gonna-” Andy starts, pushing to his feet.

“Sit.”

It's spoken quietly, so quietly Andy could pretend he didn't hear and just go his way, but his body is falling back onto his chair before he can help himself, his eyes close tight at the easy confidence in Jeffrey's tone.

“Shit, you're a mess. I could tell you to kneel on the floor right here and suck my cock, and you'd do it,” he says, voice full of wonder and mirth, and Andy shudders at the words, at the images, saliva pooling in his mouth and he swallows heavily, already gagging for it. He opens his eyes, glances to the side to catch Jeffrey's gaze, and something shifts in the older man's eyes, turning them another shade darker. “Fuck, you really would.”

Andy feels stripped, laid open; fragile, in a way, the simplest touch, word, enough to set him off. To what, he isn't sure: a fit of anger, harsh words, nervous breakdown, orgasm. It's all clustered close together in his mind, in the culmination of the past couple days.

Jeffrey's hand on his shoulder shocks him out of his spiralling mind. “Come on,” he says, and Andy finds himself getting up and following out of the bar before he even becomes aware of what they're doing. Past the reception desk, up the elevator, down a corridor. He's like a dog on a leash, trailing a couple steps behind. They're quiet, and Andy is grateful for it; if he'll have to think about this, he's going to bolt. The door to Jeffrey's room opens with an unobtrusive click.

 

The interior is not an exact copy of Andy's a couple doors down on the same floor, but it's a close enough match. He steps through the door, the sound of it falling back into its lock distant behind him. His eyes are scanning the room illuminated by soft light. Negan's leather jacket is hanging over the back of a chair, shining in the warm glow, his gloves and scarf tossed onto the desk behind it. Lucille is leaning against the corner of the room, and his fingers twitch again, the echo of the feel of her heft in his hand, her weight as he'd carried her around.

It feels inevitable, the only way the happenings of the day could have ended, the end of the path Negan has lead him down all day. He hadn't thought it was possible for someone to reduce him to this, but in Negan Rick has found an equal match, someone who pushes back, relentlessly so, until there's nothing left for him to destroy.

On the other side of the room, Negan has stripped out of his sweatshirt. He's wearing a white tank top beneath, the missing sleeves exposing the dark shadows of his tattoos. “You're not seriously still on your feet.”

Rick falls to his knees like the floor has given out beneath him. Pain shoots up his legs, but it's nothing he can't filter away in the overall scope of things. He keeps his gaze on the floor, watches bare toes appear in his field of vision, the hem of blue jeans. Negan's hands reach for his face and Rick forces himself not to turn away when his head is turned up, fingers tight in his hair, his eyes skittering over the body in front of him.

Negan's eyes are searching his, and then scorn crosses over his features, glinting dangerously.

“No, fuck no, Andy you're not going to switch out on me,” he says, and it's jarring enough for Andy to hear his own name to make him pull back instinctively, a painful tug on his hair that has him groan in protest. “You with me, Andy?” Jeffrey asks with another tug to his hair, deliberate this time, and Andy closes his eyes for a moment, forces himself to take a deep breath. “You need this, I can see it all over your body, just allow yourself to have it.”

It sounds so simple.

Jeffrey keeps raking his fingers through Andy's hair, not gently but steady. With his eyes still closed, Andy forces himself to more deep breaths, slowly falling into the sensations. The roots of his hairs prickle, heat spreading across his skull and trickling down the back of his neck, taking some of the tension with it.

“Yeah, that's it, that's good,” Jeffrey says, his voice low and even. He digs his short fingernails into the base of Andy's skull on the next repeat of his moving hands and Andy gasps out a moan at the pain. Shifting his weight, Jeffrey steps closer, flush against Andy. The smooth leather of his belt touches Andy's cheek, the hard shape of the belt buckle cool but warming quickly against Andy's skin, and he can smell him now too, warm, musky, something like sandalwood and laundry detergent.

Holding him against his body, Jeffrey chuckles warmly. “You're going to submit so good to me, Andy. But you gotta tell me what you need.”

Andy can feel the shape of Jeffrey's hard cock press against his chin through the fabric of his jeans. It's been years since he's fucked around with guys, decades separating him from the last time he's felt the girth of a dick stretch his jaw open. He wants to be taken, overwhelmed, not given a choise. “Make me,” he grits out.

“Make you what?” Jeffrey asks. “Talk? Take it?” He holds Andy's head between his hands, tilts it back until he's facing up. “Look at me.”

Andy does as he's told, following Jeffrey's orders easier than to resist him. The darkness and arousal so openly in Jeffrey's eyes helps allowing his own shame to retreat, even if only a little. The angle feels familiar, like the ache in his knees, but he's careful not to allow himself to slip too far again, knows Jeff will only call him out on it again. He settles into it, into the heavy warmth of Jeff's hands on his face, his thumbs stroking over stubble, along the lines of bones, to the plush of his lips.

“Say it,” Jeff prompts, like he already knows about the words clogging up Andy's throat.

“Fuck my mouth.”

“Thought you'd never ask.”

To his surprise, Jeff leans down, holding Andy's head securely as he claims his mouth in a fierce kiss, Andy's lips yielding easily as he's swept along. He moans around Jeff's tongue, around the rhythm that's so similar to the fucking he's yearning for, trying to match his assault but unable to.

Andy's hands feel like lead, hanging uselessly at his sides. Some part of him wants to reach out, hold onto Jeffrey's thighs, his hips, his ankles, anywhere to ground himself, but a larger part of him is content with the warmth of Jeffrey's palms cradling his face, allowing himself to be held, steered.

Drawing away from his lips, Jeffrey straightens up. He keeps one hand on Andy's face, using his right to unbuckle his belt, pulling the soft leather through the buckle, then pops the button and drags down the zipper. With a content sigh he pushes it out of the way just far enough to free his cock from the layers of fabric, giving himself a couple languid strokes. His hard dick is so close to Andy's face he can feel the heat of his skin.

“Please.” The word is wrenched from his throat without his control. His eyes flicker up, meet Jeffrey's for a second. When Jeffrey thumbs the corner of his mouth, Andy opens up without a second thought. It seems familiar: the taste of him, the weight on his tongue. Andy makes a helpless little noise and pushes his head forwards, taking more of Jeffrey's cock into his mouth, only vaguely hearing the satisfied moan Jeff makes, the quiet cursing as he rolls his hips forwards.

With his eyes closed, Andy falls into the sensations, gives himself over to them. His mouth is wet with saliva, some spilling down his chin every time Jeff pulls back, setting a shallow, even rhythm that Andy can follow easily, despite how clumsy he feels. He hollows his cheeks, earning himself another appreciative moan. His lips drag along the length of Jeff's cock, already beginning to get bruised and puffy, but he craves more. On the next push in, Andy counters his movements, feeling the tip of Jeff's cock bump against the back of his throat. It triggers his gag reflex and he coughs around the dick in his mouth, tears prickling at his eyes as he loses his breath.

Jeffrey's hand is back in his hair, pulling him clean off his cock. “Careful there,” he reprimands, his voice full of hunger. His cock is glistening with Andy's spit, all slicked up and he gives himself another couple strokes, drops of precome welling up obscenely from the tip. Andy strains forwards to take him back in his mouth, but groans painfully when Jeffrey doesn't slacken the tight grip he has on his hair.

“I'm gonna come all over your fucking face,” Jeff grits out through clenched teeth. His pupils are blown wide, black with lust. He pushes Andy's head forwards again but instead of fucking his mouth, he rubs his dick over his face, over the stubble around his jaw, over his high cheek bones.

Andy moans, sticking out his tongue, trying to get another taste. His jaw feels sore but he's craving more, craving it all, everything Jeff is willing to give him. When the head of Jeff's cock bumps against his lips, salty from precome, he sucks it back into his mouth, just the tip, Jeffrey's fingers bumping against his mouth as he keeps jerking off.

There's sudden pressure between his legs. Andy jolts, his whole body flushing hotly. He's let go of Jeffrey's cock with his lips, his eyes closing tightly as he concentrates on the sudden stimulus to his groin, deft pressure, bites his lip to keep in another helpless moan. Jeffrey keeps pressing his leg against Andy's dick, Andy's hips stuttering against it gratefully.

“You're like a bitch in heat for me,” he murmurs. The obscene slap of skin against skin speeds up as he's jacking himself harder so close to Andy's face. “Could you come like that? Rutting against my leg like a dog?”

Andy is too far gone to form a coherent reply; the pleasure – the purely physical aspect of sex – he'd pushed aside for the past minutes is ricocheting up his spine like a bullet, leaving him shaken and trembling. He doesn't know, he doesn't want to know, he doesn't want to be made to think about anything right now. He shakes his head, as much to clear is as to convey an answer, moaning when the pressure against his groin disappears, Jeffrey shifting his weight to stand more steadily.

“Look at me, Andy,” Jeff says, his voice a hoarse grunt, like it's been his throat that's been fucked raw. Andy's eyelids flutter open, blinking for a second to clear his vision, to focus back on the man that has him so tightly under his reign. “Now be a good boy and open up for me.”

Andy's eyes flicker down to Jeffrey's dick that's full and flushed in his grip, so hard it looks almost painful as Jeffrey jerks himself decidedly. A couple more tugs, and Andy can see the shudder work through him as he brings himself over the edge. It's a reflex he can't control, his eyes closing as thick ropes of spunk splatter onto his face, painting his cheeks and nose, some droplets clinging to his eyebrows and eyelids, some sliding down over his lips, and yes, hitting his open mouth, his tongue. Andy keeps his mouth open until he can't feel any more droplets hitting his skin, then swallows down what's already in his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick up everything he can reach, thirsty for more.

“Fuck,” Jeffrey groans, and the hand that's still held Andy's head by the hair is gone.

He sways from the sudden lack of contact, before a moment later he's pushed to the ground. His knees crack, blood returning to his lower legs that start smarting with pins and needles as he's stretched out on the ground. Jeffrey follows him to the floor, pushes Andy onto his back as he kneels over him and then places his hand on Andy's cock. Andy yelps, his hips arching off the cheap hotel carpet, into the deft fingers that are kneading his hard dick relentlessly through his jeans, almost too close to painful, but he's so far gone, it all runs into a single thought in his head: yes, more, don't stop.

Like a teenager, he comes seconds later, his spunk coating the inside of his underwear, making him shudder.

Eyes closed, he's lying prone on the floor, his chest rising and falling erratically with the harsh breaths he's taking. The room is spinning around him, the floor not steady at all beneath his back, but he doesn't know how to get his bearings back.

He jolts again when the damp warmth of Jeffrey's tongue starts tracing his face, his cheeks flaming red when he realises what Jeffrey is cleaning up with his tongue, licking him clean. He makes to roll away, but Jeffrey holds him still, leisurely licking at his face, and he gives in, allowing himself to relax into it.

 

“You gonna stay the night?” Jeffrey asks after he's pushed himself to his feet and went into the bathroom to clean up.

Andy opens his eyes, taking a moment to locate him leaning in the doorway to the ensuite bathroom, his face in shadow from the brighter light behind him.

“You're welcome to,” Jeffrey adds when Andy can't find words, his mind still reeling, the room almost ready to tip and tumble into another spin around him. He feels unable to decide, to make a decision. He's grateful when Jeffrey, seemingly reading his mind again, makes the decision for him. “Stay.”


End file.
